


with the wild wolves around you

by paxlux



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, full wolf transformation, slashy if you squint, so I squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:59:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxlux/pseuds/paxlux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's one of those circus nights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with the wild wolves around you

**Author's Note:**

> Stuff. Woohoo!

It's one of those circus nights, the ones where Derek points at the woods and everyone goes because it's an exercise in werewolfliness or training or maybe Derek's just indulging in some sort of awkward amusement. In any case, Stiles forgot his popcorn.

He stands out in the trees and waits. He fidgets, because that's what he does, that's who he is, the flashlight bobbing against his thigh, a circle of light flashing along the ground like a smaller satellite. It's bright enough that he can see because the moon is close this time of year and so fat in the sky and he shivers; he's read the stories about how the moon is in the blood of humans, causing them to sway like the tides, and only the women of the species remember and laugh every month.

The moon, the inconstant moon that monthly changes in her circled orb.

When you search for "the moon," sometimes you get Shakespeare instead of what you're expecting like random monsters, science, or even alien conspiracies. (Some things you get are not to be discussed. Ever.)

He understands, as he stands under a tree, a mist of rain gathering in the air, making everything shake and he feels right at home now, fidgeting as the world shakes around him. He understands the inconstancy, Derek's moods shifting the same way his body does, the way his eyes do, the way his teeth come and go.

Stiles waits. Scott has bounded off, Allison tracking him, as a sort of test or game, who knows, it'll end up with them pressed amongst the leaves somewhere, and Stiles really really really doesn't want to know.

It's not hard to stay this quiet when it's almost midnight and he's silhouetted by the big bullseye of the moon, the water catching in his hair as he rubs a hand over his head, it's not hard, but he desperately wants to hum, just under his breath, to break the atmosphere.

He doesn't always feel like he belongs, the stumble-footed human with the inappropriate grin and the tongue too fast for his brain and his brain too fast for his body. He presses the flashlight against his arm, skin lighting up reddish and he once again slows his heartbeat. It's a control thing for the pack, see if they can hear him, see if they can smell him, and he knows he's giving off a scent because these jeans are at least a day past their due date though his shirt is still a little warm from the dryer. He stopped using scented fabric softener a month ago. Isaac told him he smelled like lilac.

Tragically, Stiles doesn't want to smell like lilac. Stiles doesn't want to smell like anything. He wants to blend in, disappear, as the only non-fantastical human, he wants to camouflage himself somehow from these werewolves who can track him almost without trying.

He waits. He hears laughter over a hill, back towards the moon. He would climb a tree if he could, like a sniper, nyah nyah can't reach me, but, uh, he'd rather not break any bones at this present time.

With a click, he turns off the flashlight and ducks down into the roots of a tree, away from the searchlight of the moon just on the rise and when he sits on the forest floor, he realizes he's swaying a little.

A snarl out in the dark, Boyd from the sound of it, Stiles has learned that the same way their human voices are different, so are their wolf noises. 

Score one for the human, no, fuck that, he's up against overpowered supernatural beasts, score one million for the human. 

He shrugs against a root, shoving his shoulder more comfortable. Somewhere close by, Lydia dashes between the trees, she runs with a certain impatience and Stiles counts to three, then Erica flies after her, her steps a little more grounded even with all their soundlessness.

Pulling the sleeves of his hoodie down, Stiles traces letters on his knee, he can't sit still unless there's teeth at his throat or wrist or belly, any pulse point that would spill disastrous blood. He can't sit still and his mind chases rabbits, the Adderall wearing off slowly, he'll be able to focus to drive later because the lines guide him home. 

A soft howl, a yip in the distance, and he sighs, balancing the dark flashlight on its narrow end on his palm, the Amazing Stilinski and his traveling magic act - witness the death-defying awesomeness as he lets wolves run around him in circles, sitting calm as a cucumber while vicious dismemberment creeps ever closer. Yes, ladies and gentleman, he sits. It's astounding, buy your tickets today! He catches the flashlight before it hits a root, but he hits his fingers and he's stuck making pained faces in the dark, way to go, top notch job there, keep up the good work.

He would rub dirt on his jeans to see if his scent changes, why yes that is eau de twigs and branches, why do you ask, it is heady and expensive, no? 

Derek told him last week he could mask his scent, but not well because Stiles's scent is strong.

Stiles decided to take that to mean he stinks. He's in the middle of a deodorant test run, like Consumer Reports, to see which one he likes more.

Maybe dirt isn't so bad.

The ground is cold, the roots beading with mist, and he rubs water over his forehead, bless thee, my child, for you alone are not cursed, you are not gifted, you human have forgotten the old ways of nature and do not feel the pull. Bless thee.

Right now, he wants to break the twigs closest to him, just snap and keep snapping until he runs out of them, which, he's in a forest, it'd take a while. But no, stealth is the order of the day, stealth and the art of sitting maintenance.

He waits. If he presses left - left - no, right a little - _there_ , he can massage the spot above his elbow, his muscles sore from carting books through the library. As of the last twelve days, he hasn't knocked one onto his foot yet. Twelve days without a workplace injury. It's a record. (The smashed fingers just a second ago don't count. He's keeping his record, dammit.) 

His nose itches. He finds a nightcrawler by his shoe. He lets it slide-crawl in his palm, transferring it carefully back and forth between his hands, creating a conveyor belt for it until he hears a snuffle.

Derek sits by a tree, in wolf form, staring over his shoulder at something, away from Stiles, down the hill where the woods are rustling, most likely because werewolves are running somewhat controlled, not completely wild. Another yip in the night and Derek grumbles low in his chest, a subaural sound Stiles feels more than hears, and the nightcrawler falls off Stiles's hand with a faint plop.

But Derek simply huffs, as if he's exasperated and amused; to be honest, that's the reaction Stiles usually has to these exercises. Then he stands, and pads over, wolf gaze catching on something in the vicinity of Stiles's tree. 

Stiles hopes it isn't a rabbit. Or a squirrel. He isn't in the mood for tiny forest creature massacre in heart-stopping high definition death-o-vision. 

He searches for the nightcrawler, only finding a roly-poly, letting it ball in the lines of his hand before it decides it's safe to uncurl, tiny little legs running over his skin.

A push of air and Derek stares at him with a blank expression of annoyance, because that's Derek's default expression with Stiles. 

He shrugs, dragging his hood up over his head, and he makes a gesture, I'm here and they forgot about me, whaddya want.

Derek's eyes flash in discs, the night vision flaring, then he leans in and Stiles doesn't move, no sudden movements, Stiles, Derek said a long time ago, no flinching.

He keeps his hands in sight and breathes, the roly-poly running off the cliff of his fingertips. Then Derek licks across his forehead, one two three. Bless thee.

There's an angry growl down the hill and Derek's gone, all werewolf-born grace and silence.

Stiles pulls himself deeper into his hoodie and draws his knees to his chest. He's swaying a little between the roots of the tree.

He's a little warmer now. He finds a stick and he scratches in the dirt for new bugs. He counts his heartbeats and sees Derek slink by, a shadow taking up space from other shadows (score another million for the human). He rubs dirt between his fingertips and the moon climbs. He waits.

**Author's Note:**

> This is old, I found it in my folder. I suck at titles. Bon Iver.


End file.
